


Tear-Stained

by Lif61 (UltimateFandomTrash)



Series: Whumptober 2019 [14]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester Whump, Emotionally Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Season/Series 07, Tear-stained, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-16 10:42:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21034949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UltimateFandomTrash/pseuds/Lif61
Summary: With Castiel dead, Dean seeks comfort from his coat that he kept. (Takes place during season 7.)





	Tear-Stained

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day 14 of Whumptober 2019.  
Prompt: tear-stained.

Dean would stay up well past when he was sure Sammy went to sleep. He had difficulties sleeping, and while his brother surely had his own issues with Lucifer in his head, Dean just couldn’t keep his eyes closed and drift off. Anytime he tried he saw black encroaching on Castiel’s face, and he saw his body walking into the water and not coming back up. He saw him dying. So when his brother was breathing deeply he’d put his jacket on, grab his keys, and go out to the trunk of the Impala.

It was where he kept Castiel’s coat after…

After he’d left them.

The stupid son of a bitch!

Why had he had to open Purgatory? Couldn’t he have asked Dean for help? Couldn’t he have found another way to derail Apocalypse 2.0?

Couldn’t he have…? Couldn’t he…?

Couldn’t he have stayed with him, and not… not _died?_

Why had had he had to work with Crowley? Why couldn’t he have told him the truth about… about _all of it?_ Why this? Why hurt Sam? Why _leave?_

God, he hated him.

He hated him so god damn much.

Dean still prayed to him sometimes. He didn’t mean to. He’d catch himself waking up from sleep, coat cushioned under his head like a pillow, and crying out his name like a prayer, a bitter kiss on his lips, tears streaking his cheeks. Other times he’d do it on purpose, sitting on his bed, hoping he was still out there, still alive. But a dark emptiness met him.

His angel was gone.

Gone, gone, gone.

Dean couldn’t get himself to go back into the motel, not with Sam crying out in his sleep, and twitching and shifting, sometimes clawing at his neck like hands were around it, sometimes moaning, voice a mix of pleasure and pain. Dean wasn’t judging him, knew he was the last person on Earth who could, but he couldn’t be with him, not when he couldn’t help him, not when his whole life was falling apart, and half of him was gone.

So he curled up in the driver’s seat, Castiel’s coat rolled up and against the window. It separated his sensitive cheek and ear from the glass, and there it stayed for the night.

When he slept he didn’t dream, just drifted in and out of depressing, grieving consciousness, and he cried, face wet with tears.

Dean woke up much too early in the morning, aching, crust around his eyes that stung with sleep deprivation and mourning. He wiped his face, and looked down at the wet spots on the coat. He sniffled, nose stuffy, and he told himself it was from the cold.

He could tell himself that, and he could keep telling himself that he was getting sick, that he wasn’t used to sleeping in the car anymore, that he was just exhausted from dealing with Sammy, but no matter what he told himself, it was yet another sunrise where Castiel’s coat was more tear-stained.


End file.
